I'm sorting my various belongings into two big piles, the keep pile and the toss pile, while loudly accompanying Nick Cash in a stellar rendition of "Homicide," which makes the moving business seem much less of a chore. Well, less of a chore for me.
"Christ, if you'd told me you wanted to listen to that sort of racket, I could have obliged you by hitting a couple of frying pans together," Quinn shouts above the din.
I grin and pogo up to him. "Don't you diss 999. They are a great band!"
"Yeah, except they can't play or sing," he shouts turning the volume on the record player down a few notches.
"Are you making light of my misspent youth?" I pout.
Quinn groans. "You were a punk, weren't you? One of those filthy kids hanging out down the King's Road."
"Nah, I wasn't a punk, back when I first got into it, there wasn't a name for what I was, that came later," I reply cockily. "I was at the 100 Club when Sid threw a pint glass at the Damned."
"I remember that vaguely," Quinn says. "Didn't he get arrested because somebody got hurt?"
"Yeah, but it was an accident. Mind you, Sid's entire life was a fucking accident," I shrug.
"Charming. None of them could play for shit though," Quinn quips.
I turn up the pout a notch. "Don't you dare dismiss that beat," I mutter, lower lip protruding dangerously. "It was fast, new, and totally different. So who cares whether any of them could actually play or not. Besides, I would have thought you were into it as well, going to clubs like Louise's back in '76..."
Quinn is shaking with barely suppressed laughter. "You're shitting me, right?" He gasps.
"No, I'm deadly serious," I reply.
"You hung out at a dyke dive in '76?" He's really laughing now.
"Yeah, we all did."
Quinn collapses into a chair, hands clasped to his belly, "Rob, sometimes you still have the ability to completely bowl me over," he guffaws. "Don't tell me, you were one of those kids with dyed hair wearing one of those filthy t-shirts and a whole toolbox full of metal implements jammed through various parts of your anatomy."
"Hey, I looked cute with fire-engine red hair," I protest.
"Yeah, remind me to ask your mum whether she's got any pictures next time I see her, would you?" Quinn teases.
"I think she burned the lot of them on Bonfire Night once I went back to my natural color," I sulk. "I'll have you know though, I was a good-looking lad."
"And entirely without ego too," Quinn grins. "Besides, you're still pretty good-looking in your old age..."
"'m not that old," I pout. "Still have one of the t-shirts I nicked from 'Sex' about the place somewhere too..."
"Ooooooh, it's petty theft as well now, is it?" Quinn chortles.
"Well, yeah, it's not as if anyone could afford that stuff. Vivienne knew it as well, everybody was nicking shit down the King's Road. That was punk for you," I reply a little apologetically. There are bits of that misspent youth I'm not too proud of.
I start digging through the chest of drawers while he still giggles like a maniac. You'd think he'd get over it at some point, wouldn't you? Appears to be mock-the-Rob day round our way today. I finally find the shirt I was looking for and pull it out of the drawer sheepishly, holding it up for Quinn to see.
He gets very, very quiet all of a sudden, got the dead fish thing going on with his mouth. You know, lips slightly parted, jaw hanging down, like he can't believe his eyes. Well, he probably can't. There's a reason I chose to show him this particular t-shirt after all.
"You wore that?" He asks rather flatly after a minute or so.
"Yeah, multiple times too," I smirk.
"Fucking hell Rob! You walked around London in a t-shirt that caused an obscenity trial and just so happens to feature a couple of naked cowboys on the front and you didn't work out until now that you're as queer as a three-pound note?"
"Never met a bloke like you before I guess," I shrug. "Never wanted another bloke besides you."
"Fuck me? Now?" Quinn almost pleads his voice growing husky.
I throw the t-shirt over my shoulder with one flick of my wrist, while turning the volume on the record player up again. "Hell yeah," I grin as the track changes and I virtually pounce on Quinn.
Amid the kissing and the sucking and the grinding our groins together to the beat, he still finds time to look up at me grinning broadly and saying, "your taste in music's still shite."
So I kiss him until he shuts up.
© KJB 2002-2003.